


Brass

by zulu



Series: Percussion [4]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: 07-08, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-24
Updated: 2007-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:05:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Foreman never got the whole story, just edges. But House isn't the only one who can diagnose people the same way he does diseases. Foreman saw it in Wilson's discomfort when Foreman had asked if he was with House, in his strange smile when he'd spoken of earning House's respect. The rest of it is easy to imagine..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brass

**Author's Note:**

> Betas by Leiascully, Parrot, Daemonluna, Troutkitty.

**Brass**

 

1.

 

It's raining, a sullen, wind-whipped downpour that's settled in for the duration. House sits at his desk, legs up, right propped on left, watching the steady slash of rain blur the sky. The lights are off in his office because he never realized how far away the light switch was; so he sits in the glow of his computer screen and stares through his reflection in the windowpane.

It's quarter to six on a Friday. House holds his six o'clock pill between his thumb and forefinger and turns it end over end. He hides the pill in his fist and practices palming it, right hand to left, back and forth. He learned sleight of hand when he was fourteen, and he hasn't forgotten the method, but he's out of practice. Back and forth, pretending the pill is a card or a scarf or a die. Ten minutes left. Even he's not fooled by his one-man three card Monty. He glances at the clock and taps the pill. He had a bottle of water around here at one point, but it's empty now. He manages to get the pill down, feeling it scrape against the sides of his throat when he swallows.

It's fifty feet to the bathroom. House does the math easily, calculating the integration of narcotics and time. Another fifty feet from the clinic doors to his designated parking space. Seventy feet to the elevators; the same again to cross the lobby downstairs. The streets are clogged with with slush and sanding trucks and traffic. There are still icy patches outside the clinic no matter what Cuddy promised about getting the janitors to salt the sidewalk.

It's possible that if he tries to stand up, his leg won't hold his weight. House wonders how long he can wait before it stiffens too much to move at all. Right now his leg is...not painless, but quiescent. So he won't move. Not yet. He rests his hand on his thigh, ready to massage away a cramp if it comes. Through his jeans, he can feel the ridge of flesh between muscle and scar tissue.

He hears the hiss of the pneumatic door when it opens. He keeps watching the rain.

"I thought you'd have gone home by now."

House doesn't want to explain how he wasn't too tired to move, but too tired to deal with the consequences of moving, and somehow it seems safer to stay in his office until the pain forces him out. "The roads are full of idiots," he says.

"Says the man who thinks speed limits are more like guidelines." Wilson pushes off the door jamb where he was leaning. He crosses the room diffidently, his hands in his suit pockets--the charcoal suit that goes so well with his polished shoes and the small curl of his smile. House picks up his tennis ball and rests his chin on it. It's easier to ignore how that suit shows off every inch of Wilson when he covers it with his lab coat and pocket protector. House turns the tennis ball over, following the seams with his fingertips. It's only six, but Wilson's got his overcoat draped over one forearm and he's holding an umbrella. He probably hopes Bonnie will be grateful that he's coming home early. Wearing that suit, House thinks, Wilson probably won't make it home at all.

He tries moving the tennis ball over his fingers like a coin. "The more traffic laws there are, the safer people think they are," he says. "So the more stupid chances they take when they drive."

"And with that kind of logic, an eight-year-old invented Opposite Day." Wilson tilts his head a bit, looking down at him with a small, teasing smile. "Come on," he says, tapping his umbrella, "I'll keep you dry out to your car."

House sets his jaw. Wilson's trying to jolly him into moving. "I like getting wet."

That earns him the barest hint of an eye-roll. "And pneumonia goes so well with your February blahs," Wilson says.

House smiles brightly up at him. "February _is_ consumption month."

"Heart and stroke month, actually."

"Then I'm ahead of my time for March."

Wilson simply raises his eyebrows and waits. House frowns ferociously, but Wilson's clearly not leaving until he does. He takes his time lifting his leg down from the desk. He's stiff, but it's not as bad as it could have been. The pill he took is kicking in. He takes his cane and stands up. Wilson's learned not to reach for him, or tense up as if he's bracing himself to catch House when he falls. He's getting better at pretending this is normal.

House has been pretending it's normal since he told his physical therapist where she could shove her damn crutches.

They walk to the elevator slowly. Wilson hasn't gotten into the cautious habit of keeping a foot or more away from House's lurching gait, and their shoulders brush on most steps. House glares straight ahead and tries to pick a path with the fewest detours around patients and staff.

"Did you hear about the nurse from Cardiology?" Wilson asks.

House stabs the elevator button with one finger. It won't be long before pretending to be normal will just be normal. "The one who lies about choosing nursing over medical school?" he says. "The man-nurse?"

"Apparently not for much longer," Wilson says, completely straight-faced.

House feels a grin coming on, but tries to hold it back. "Reassignment surgery?"

"Just got approved." Wilson slants a look at him, barely holding back laughter.

House considers that, raising his eyebrows. "Think she'll come back here afterwards?" The elevator doors open and they step on. It's long enough past the shift change that they're alone.

"Who knows?" Wilson says, canting his body against the back of the elevator and tipping his head against the wall. "Would you?"

"No," House says, letting his glance slide sideways. Part of his mind is still ticking off possible candidates for Wilson's guilt-ridden fuck for tonight. "But then, I like my dick."

He misses on making Wilson stutter, but he does earn a blush. "I don't think that's quite how it works--"

"That's exactly how it works," House says, with a laugh at Wilson's expression. "She's not just putting on a party dress and belting out _We Are Family_." The elevator display lights up on the ground floor. House braces himself on his cane for the jar, but he can't quite keep from stumbling.

Wilson notices. He presses his lips together, but then he shakes his head and relaxes. He gives an exasperated sigh and walks ahead of House into the lobby. "I always knew if I wanted to know the finer points of divergence between drag queens and transsexuals, I could come to you," he says dryly.

House follows him, scowling. The illusion's broken. Wilson senses it, too, and only glances at him warily rather than try another bit of gossip. House wonders if he hoards them all day, dropping them like bread crumbs into an animal's cage. This much innuendo will get House to the cafeteria for a meal. This much scandal will make him consider a consult. Wilson's never been altruistic. It's just that now the manipulation shows more.

Wilson stops at the doors to the clinic and bundles into his coat, tugging it close around his neck. He grimaces at the rain and shakes out his umbrella. House grits his teeth and waits beside him, already miserable and cold just knowing how miserable and cold he's going to be in a moment. People pushing through the doors stamp and shiver, their shoulders and hair frosted and their breath fogging until the warm fans push the freezing air back outside. House forgot to zip his jacket while he was still sitting, and he can't manage it one-handed. If Wilson tries to mother him, House will punch him in the mouth. His left jab was always surprisingly good. It's still good--just not as surprising.

"Cuddy said she'd get the sidewalk taken care of," Wilson says neutrally, as he finishes buttoning his coat.

House clamps down on the urge to snap that Cuddy was also the one who promised she'd follow his treatment decision and then maimed him while he was under, but so far tonight they've managed to sidestep that pitfall, so he tightens his fist on his cane and says nothing.

"The janitors aren't out to get you," Wilson adds, shrugging deeper into his coat. It's supposed to be in a tone of voice that no one could possibly take offense at, but House is just talented enough to manage it.

"Janitors are worse than the Corleones," he says. They're standing shoulder to shoulder, staring out into the fucking cold. "They never forget."

"And they're surprisingly good at cleaning up the evidence," Wilson says mildly.

House huffs out a breath, almost a laugh. He knows he's being maneuvered, but Wilson's got nothing if not finesse. He squeezes the handle of his cane and pushes through the doors. The cement is slippery as fuck, and he tenses, waiting to feel his Nikes grip before he takes another step. The rubber tip of the cane slicks across the ice when he starts to put weight on it. Beside him, Wilson blows into his gloved hands, then opens his umbrella, peering up at the clouds as if he's surprised it hasn't stopped raining just because he's about to leave the shelter of the entryway. House limps forward, the damp chill already soaking through his clothes, ignoring Wilson's awkward effort to get the umbrella over both of them.

He waves Wilson off when they make it to his car. He's already as wet as he's going to be. Ice water trickles down the back of his neck when Wilson shrugs and pulls the umbrella away.

"Good night, House," he says, like he always says it, resigned and amused, as if he could have the last word if he wanted it, but he's being the bigger man.

House says, "Good night, Wilson," and clenches his teeth against a shiver. Wilson's already walking away, quickly, hunching his shoulders against the cold.

House bends carefully getting into the car. When he puts his key in the ignition, there's an empty click. No lights on the dashboard. No radio. No heat. He stares at the little blue placard dangling from the rear-view mirror.

He fucking hates February.

He reaches into his pocket for his cell phone, and squeezes it, hard, before he flips it open and hits speed dial one. The rain staccatos against the car roof while the phone rings.

"Miss me?" Wilson answers lightly. The words are right, but House hears the immediate concern underneath.

He closes his eyes and says viciously, "The fucking battery is dead."

There's a pause. Wilson knows better than to ask if he's sure, or if he's got jumper cables, or if his AAA membership is up to date. Over the rain, House hears his faint sigh. "Give me a minute," he says, and then there's the click of the disconnect.

House fights the urge to punch the steering wheel, to shatter a window with his cane. His leg throbs despite the Vicodin, aching deep and dull from the cold.

A minute later, Wilson pulls into the parking space beside his and rolls down his window. "Come on," he says. "I'll drive you."

It's another effort, swinging his legs out of the car and pushing himself to his feet. He locks and slams the door. Rain spits against his face, hard enough that it's nearly sleet. Wilson's car is already warm, the bastard. House angles himself into the passenger seat. Wilson waits for him to get his seatbelt on before he pulls out. Raindrops pelt across the windshield, and the wiper blades squeak on every pass. Wilson's keeping a careful eye on the road, so House gives in and lets himself watch him. The way his bangs fall across his forehead, the way he tightens his lips in concentration, the darkness of his eyes under the flicker of streetlights, the ebb and flow of shadows over his face. He's taken off his gloves, and his left hand rests on the steering wheel. He's not wearing his wedding ring. House wonders sourly if Bonnie minds. Or notices.

"I heard you figured out what Lopez's car crash patient had," Wilson says.

House grunts. Wilson's trying so goddamned hard not to start a fight. He hasn't brought up Stacy once yet. "MRSA from a tattoo needle," he says grudgingly. "Lopez was still looking for complications from the skull fracture." The patient's family wanted to thank him. Lopez wanted Cuddy to stick his head on a pike. "If I catch three more missed diagnoses in his department, I get to send away for the free prize."

"Shipping and handling extra?" Wilson asks.

House grins again. "Not if I hide the cost in my minion budget."

Wilson raises his eyebrows. "You're supposed to be using that money to hire fellows," he says.

"If I wanted to interview," House says dismissively, to push him a little.

Wilson looks across at him. "You do need doctors around who will challenge you."

"No, I need bodies who'll run my tests without screwing up."

The next step is for Wilson to offer to sit in on his interviews. House waits for it, but Wilson smiles lightly, the way he does when he's decided he's not going to let House get to him. House hasn't seen that look for months.

When Wilson pulls up and parks outside his apartment building, he turns off the engine and follows House up the walk, huddling under his umbrella while House ducks into the shelter of the doorway.

House looks back over his shoulder as he pulls out his keys. "Expecting an invitation?"

Wilson shrugs. "I told Bonnie your car broke down. That I might be a while."

House licks his lips, tasting rainwater. He unlocks the door and shoves inside, turning up the heat as soon as he reaches the thermostat, and then stripping off his wet jacket. Wilson comes in after him, closing his umbrella and shutting the door. His hair is damp, enough to make the tips spike with moisture just above his ears.

"Gonna get a shower," House says, moving to the middle of the room and tapping his cane against the floor. Wilson nods and moves to hang up his coat and House's jacket in the closet. The suit jacket follows, and then he's loosening his tie. There's something about Wilson that breathes easier, that is more _House's_, when he unbuttons the top of his shirt to expose his throat, carefully folds his sleeves back to show his forearms. House glances at him, then turns and leaves the room.

House strips down in the bathroom while he waits for the water to run hot. His thigh has stiffened up after all. He runs a hand over the edge of the scar, the angry red lines that mark where the sutures were, the gaping absence where his muscles should be. It still looks wrong, unfamiliar and artificial. When his jeans fall to the floor, he hears the rattle of the pill bottle in his pocket, and he pulls it out. A few months ago he thought he'd be able to control the pain with tramadol and gabapentin, until he nearly puked his guts up for three nights straight. He knows he's getting habituated to the Vicodin. It hasn't been even an hour since his last dose, but he runs a fingertip along the grooves in the edge of the lid and thinks about the sound it makes when he pops it open. Tonight, despite the weather, the pain isn't bad. He sets the bottle on the counter. The shower will help.

The water stings warmth into his chilled skin. House stands under the spray, holding the safety bar and trying to massage the tightness out of his right shoulder with one hand. Over the water, he can almost hear Wilson moving through the apartment. He closes his eyes and turns his face up to the water. Wilson's the rescuing type, knight in shining Volvo. This isn't the first time he's put off his wife to stay with House. The difference is, tonight House doesn't need it. He's fine, his leg isn't acting up, he's solved Lopez's not very mysterious mystery for him. It's been a good day, for what that's worth. But Wilson's out there, staying. All night he's made his best goddamn effort to act like things are normal. House has been snapping at him since Stacy walked out, wanting nothing more than for Wilson to shut the fuck up about House's life. Tonight's the first time Wilson's played along, instead of making his doe-eyed face and hinting that House might want to _talk_ about it.

He remembers Wilson in the car, looking tired but happy. The tension between them has been easier lately. If Wilson did have a hot date tonight, with some nurse or resident, he's let it go pretty quickly. House thinks of Wilson's thin fingers brushing absently along the steering wheel. The way he looked at the hospital, his long body in that tailored suit, angled against the back of the elevator. His small, secretive smile tonight, warm and teasing. House takes a sharp breath of the steamy air. He's getting hard. He can't remember the last time it happened without effort. The last time he got off was with Stacy, something stupid and desperate that didn't work anyway, for either of them. He leans heavily on the safety bar and squeezes his cock once or twice, testing. He can still feel the ache in his thigh, but it's less than it was and the coil of pleasure in his dick is greater. Maybe tonight's a better night than he gave it credit for. He grins, jaggedly, and drops his hand. He finishes his shower quickly and towels off, leaving the pile of clothes kicked into a corner of the bathroom.

He limps from the bathroom to the bedroom, holding his towel in place with one hand, using the other to grab the walls for balance. The Vicodin and the heat of the shower working through his muscles are enough to cushion his steps for the few feet he needs to cross. Wilson's in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards. House pulls on a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt, then pulls a wrinkled blue dress shirt over his head without bothering to undo the buttons. He sits on the edge of the bed for a moment. His dick's still a little interested, a little impatient, but he's old enough and hurt enough that it doesn't take much to convince it to wait.

After grabbing his pills from the bathroom and shoving the bottle back into his pocket, House pads out to the kitchen. He finds Wilson putting some sandwiches together. House leans his hip against the island and pulls one plate across the tile without a word, stealing more bologna from Wilson's pile and adding another layer of mustard. He slaps the second piece of bread on top and takes a huge bite, chewing messily.

Wilson watches for a moment, fighting a grin, before he breaks into a chuckle. "Has anyone ever told you you have the table manners of a five year old?"

House grins back, through the sandwich. "Not since I was five."

"Somebody's missed some golden opportunities, then."

"So glad you're here to capitalize on this one." He lets the words come out sarcastic, because Wilson knows better than to take him seriously. House puts the sandwich down and opens the fridge. He shouldn't be drinking on top of the Vicodin, but if that's his criteria then he's never going to touch alcohol again. He grabs two beers and clinks them down on the counter. Wilson looks at him darkly but takes his and fishes House's bottle opener out of the cutlery drawer. He passes it over to House without comment after he's uncapped his beer.

House opens his, takes a swig, and then carries the beer out to the couch, leaving Wilson to bring the plates of sandwiches and his own beer. Wilson's even given up making the little sighs that suggest House might like to _ask_ before assuming Wilson has enough hands to grab everything. He has two legs--that's reason enough to make him the fetch-and-carry. House sits down near the middle of the couch, where Wilson won't have much choice but to sit right next to him, on his left side. He turns on the TV and doesn't bother to notice what's playing.

When Wilson sits down beside him, setting his sandwich in front of him with a sardonic little bow, and then sitting back with an easy, relaxed sigh, House feels a sudden surge of déjà vu. Maybe Wilson can tell, because he smiles before picking up his sandwich. "This is...nice," he says.

House rolls his eyes. "That's quite the insight. Be sure to interrupt the show whenever you've got more like that one."

"Because you were thinking seriously about investing in self-storage," Wilson says, tilting his head at the television.

House glances at the commercial, advertising large spaces, cheap rates, and high security. "A man's storage unit is his castle," he says, to see if he can make Wilson laugh again.

It's close. Wilson grins and shakes his head before turning his attention to his sandwich. The hum of the furnace kicks on, and the tattoo of the rain against the roof fades. House shifts forward to snag his plate and pull it onto his lap. He feels comfortable. Good. Wilson's only an inch or two away. Warm. House takes a breath and thinks about taking his pulse to see if it's as elevated as it seems.

It must have been eight months or more ago that they managed to sit like this, without him being stoned on morphine or with Stacy's absence hanging between them. House frowns. It's been long enough that he's resigned himself to the pain. It's not better, it'll never be better, and the idea that this is what he's resigned to--that he's fucking resigned to _anything_\--he hates that so much he can barely swallow. Except the pills. He can always swallow the pills. He pushes his plate away, empty now, and swigs his beer.

Stacy's been gone two months, almost. That's worried Wilson more even than House's leg, or the drugs, or the days he just doesn't bother going in to work. The way Wilson got after House for driving her away, it seemed more like Wilson's the one who was fucking her. It's moronic, but House can't help wondering. He spent months pushing both of them out, and maybe pushing them together. He'll never know. Stacy hangs up when he calls her and Wilson can lie too fucking well when he thinks it's best for House not to know.

He thinks about that, about Wilson fucking Stacy--the way she bites her lip when he slides in, stretching her open, the way she gasps in that first moment and then squeezes around him. House imagines Wilson's back, glowing with sweat, the clench of his muscles as he drives in. The feel of his cock, hard and deep and full and fucking him, his chest against House's back, thrusting in. Jesus.

House clenches his jaw and shifts his weight on the couch, trying to adjust himself. Wilson's watching TV like it matters, probably hasn't noticed. House closes his eyes and rests one hand on his right thigh, as if he's in pain (and he is), but the back of his thumb nudges the shape of his erection through his jeans. He's glad of the untucked shirt that hides most of it. Stacy had no interest in fucking him, and besides, the difference between a dick and a dildo is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.

The couch shifts, and House's eyes fly open. Wilson's getting up, but he just grabs the dishes and their empty bottles and takes them to the kitchen. A minute later he's back with the rest of the beer and the bottle opener. He cracks open two and hands one to House, again with that smile that seems warmer than it used to be. House takes a long drink before resting the bottle in his lap, pressing the cool glass against his crotch. This is going too far, too fast, but it feels fucking good and he wants more.

What the hell is Wilson doing, anyway, coming over here as if House needs him? Sitting so goddamn close, when there are other chairs in the room? Watching the TV with his lower lip relaxed, his eyes dark and intent on the screen, finishing his second beer quickly and then sipping slowly at his third, lips against the bottle, his hand laying in his lap only inches away. This isn't the first time House has imagined Wilson turning to him one night and offering to help him out, just between friends. Picturing Wilson sliding down to his knees in front of House. Opening his jeans, slowly, one zipper-tooth at a time while Wilson stares up through his bangs, meeting House's eyes steadily, so fucking serious. Then the hot wet pull of his mouth, one hand moving to cup House's balls, fingers sliding back to his perineum.

He'd never told Stacy this, even after he admitted Cuddy to her, even though she knew he'd fucked guys. Sometimes he thinks Wilson suspects. Tonight he wants to know.

There's no good moment, and there isn't going to be. House waits for Wilson to set his beer down, and as he's sitting back, House puts his hand on Wilson's shoulder. Wilson turns to him, raising his eyebrows, mouth opening slightly in surprise.

House kisses him. Lightly, to start, stroking his hand up to the back of Wilson's neck, pulling him closer. Then, slowly, running his tongue into Wilson's still-open mouth, chasing the sharp breath that's Wilson's only reaction at first. He's horny and he's been waiting for this, wanting, and tonight has been a good night, his first good night since he lost his leg and his whole fucking life. Wilson's here, has chosen House over his wife, wanted to stay. And it's perfect, the taste of beer on both their tongues, the hint of stubble coming in around Wilson's lips, the firm muscles of his back. House kisses harder when Wilson doesn't move, swallowing the surprised sound he makes, letting his hand grip tighter when Wilson starts to pull back. Wilson twists away, out of his hold, breathing quickly.

"That..." His eyes are wide, his gaze darting over House's face. "What was that?"

House takes his hand back and pulls away. "I'm going to assume you recognize a kiss when someone shoves their tongue down your throat."

Wilson gapes at him, looking trapped. He's blushing, and his pupils are dilated. "House," he says, and licks his lips. He's looking away when he says, "I'm married."

House clenches his fists, pressing them hard against his lap, and thinks of punching Wilson, thinks of grabbing him and kissing him again. "And that mattered so much to you the first time around," he says. It hasn't mattered yet with Bonnie, either. It's the stupidest goddamn excuse House has ever heard.

"It...that was a mistake."

As if Wilson's cheating is the issue. House wants him to shut the fuck up, so he grabs him again, this time by the front of his shirt, feeling buttons bunch against his fingers, and presses their mouths together. He catches Wilson's lower lip and sucks on it, then kisses him again, tilting his head and inviting Wilson to fight him off, or give in, or kiss back. House closes his eyes because it's still good, it's not working yet but it's still what he wants. Wilson moves, then, turning his head aside, but not far enough to break the kiss. He brushes his lips against House's, an echo, and for a moment House can't breathe. He loosens his hand on Wilson's shirt and runs his palm over his chest, to his ribs. He wants to know if Wilson's reacting, getting as hard as he is. He twists his hips, enough to push his erection into Wilson's leg. He reaches for the front of Wilson's pants, and Wilson's dick is half-hard, not all the way there yet but not limp either. House breaks the kiss long enough to pant. He's short on oxygen, and he can't quite help rubbing lightly against Wilson's leg, more contact, more pressure. He feels it when Wilson tenses. Then Wilson's standing up, getting away.

House swallows. Wilson looks half-fucked and flustered. His hair's mussed, his shirt wrinkled, his lips red. "I'm not--" he starts, and puts one hand to the back of his neck. He's not looking at House.

"You're not what?" House asks. "That kind of girl? Don't like putting out on the first date?"

Wilson stares at him. "This isn't a _date_, House. This is--" He holds out a hand, flailing for a moment, before he looks at the beer bottles on the table. "You're drunk."

House gets his cane and stands up. He's still hard, but it's fading, leaving an ache in his balls. "Surprisingly sober, actually," he says, not bothering to hide his bitterness.

Wilson looks away. "I'm drunk, then."

"Three beers? Yeah, that sounds about right." Wilson's not acting anything like it, but House throws the words at him anyway. There's only the space of the coffee table between them. House wants out of the room, but Wilson's standing in the way. House steps forward, to push past him.

Wilson flinches back. "Stop."

House glares at him. "So that you can have your heterosexual panic? No thanks." He gets around him, leading with his shoulder, making Wilson give way.

Wilson catches his arm before he gets out of the room and spins him around. House hisses when he steps wrong, but Wilson barely notices. He's in House's space, gripping him by the upper arm. His face is set and angry, but at least it's not his goddamn pity, which House has been getting too much of for the better part of a year. "What's this really about, House?" he asks, leaning in, as if he's finally going to wring a confession out of House. "The fact that you've driven Stacy away? The fact that I'm the only one left who can stand you?"

House yanks his arm back. "Would you shut the hell up about Stacy?" he says, wishing Wilson would just get a goddamned clue.

Wilson lets a breath go and scrubs a hand over his face. His shoulders drop. "You're trying to pretend you're not hurting. That she didn't leave you."

"You're trying to pretend you're straight, so I guess we're even," House says, trying to put every possible shade of _you oblivious moron_ into his voice.

Wilson's lips tighten. "I _am_ straight, House."

He's standing less than a foot away. They've always ignored personal boundaries. House leans forward, smirking. "This," he says, cupping Wilson's dick, "says different."

Wilson clamps a hand down on his wrist and pushes his arm aside. "Don't."

He's still half-hard. He reacted. "You're a fucking coward," House says.

Wilson meets his eyes. "I'm going to go." He turns away and goes to the closet, pulling out his coat.

House stands in the middle of the room, leaning all his weight on his cane until his shoulder burns. Wilson yanks open the door, only halfway into his coat, and then turns back to House, his mouth turned down at the corners, looking like _he's_ the one who got fucked over here tonight. He takes a breath, as if he's going to say something. House doesn't want to hear it. "Going to fuck your wife and think of me?" he asks, harsh even though his voice is low. He's not surprised at all when Wilson just shakes his head and walks out, shutting the door sharply behind him.

House limps back to the couch, slow and awkward, grabbing the back for support before he sits down, holding his cane between his legs. The television babbles on, some movie he doesn't care about and never wanted to see. He leaves it on and watches the row of empties on the coffee table. The pain is back. The cold-weather ache in his thigh, the throb of his neglected hard-on. He's been using the cane too much, because his shoulders hurt like a bitch, like his chest is being pressed in a vise. He licks his lips and remembers the way Wilson tasted. He thinks about jacking off, but it's too much effort to move and he doesn't want to think.

It's nine o'clock on a Friday. House is half-buzzed and alone. He pops the top off his pill bottle and swallows one dry, and doesn't care that there's an hour left before he should.

 

 

2.

 

It's fall, a warm dry day that's already melted the morning's crisp layer of frost. Wilson stands on his balcony, leaning both hands against the rough brick, looking out over Princeton. The sky's that amazing shade of deep clear blue that happens only in October. All across the campus, the leaves have turned, red and gold and a few late patches of faded green. Wilson breathes in the scent of smoke. He's playing House's usual role, escaping the piles of patient charts and memos stacked on his desk. There's a thick legal envelope on top of it all that he was served with this morning. Julie's filed for dissolution without contest.

The door on House's half of the balcony opens. Wilson grips the bricks tighter to stop himself from ducking back into his office. House pushes clear of the door with his shoulder and crosses to the dividing wall, propping his cane next to him and leaning his hip against the balustrade for support. He lowers his chin and looks Wilson over, a thoughtful, almost concerned look, before he turns and scowls out at the view.

"You're sulking."

"Coming from the master, that's quite the compliment," Wilson says. When the envelope arrived, he'd taken it without even raising his eyebrows, filing it among his to-dos and turning back to the email he'd been writing. Ten minutes later he realized he'd clicked the send button and had been staring out the window ever since. He prefers it out here. The breeze is cool but the sun has warmed the sheltered area of the balcony. He never has time to drive up north for the foliage. This is nice. "Are you here to stop me from jumping?"

"I said sulking, not suicidal. You'd feel too guilty to ever off yourself."

That's probably true. Wilson smiles wryly at himself. His patients have bigger problems than their doctor's impending divorce. Whose fault it is and who should be blamed; whose affair was the bigger problem and who will end up with the house--it's all so petty, when Wilson considers the number of patients in his department who will die in the months before he signs the final divorce papers. Poor Doctor Wilson, with his irrelevant problems. Maybe he's seen too many people die, because he'd rather know where he's sleeping tonight than bother scrawling his signature on a dozen treatment courses that may not have any effect at all.

House's scowl deepens. "Timothy Kelly?" he asks. "Vivian Aster?"

Tim has end-stage pancreatic cancer. Mrs. Aster still refuses to give up smoking despite her large-cell lung cancer. "No," Wilson says, amused that House is admitting he knows Wilson's caseload as well as he does, if not better. He'll find out sooner or later. Wilson wasn't prepared for sooner, but he probably should have been.

House grunts. Wilson can nearly see the calculations. If it was a patient, Wilson would be working on preparing palliative care options or speaking with the family. If it was work, he'd probably be in House's conference room, kibitzing from the sidelines, or taking a break by seeing a few patients in the clinic. That leaves Julie. House narrows his eyes and glances over when he figures it out.

Wilson lifts a shoulder in a small shrug. It's not like everyone didn't know it was coming.

House leans his elbows on the balustrade, crossing his arms at the wrists. "You're boring when you sulk."

"Is there some reason I shouldn't be?" Wilson asks. Boring, or sulking, or both. Getting divorced is boring. He's got it down to a routine. That's depressing, but it's not interesting.

"You're a free man," House says. "And _Charlie's Angels_ is on tonight."

Wilson stares at him, even though House is still frowning out at the campus. "That's...incredibly comforting," he says.

House tilts his head and calls him a moron with a look.

Wilson sighs and has to agree. "The television show?" he asks.

"The movie. Less plot, more explosions, and skimpier bikinis."

"You're still bitter they chose a different tagline, aren't you?"

House smirks, a quick almost-smile that he keeps pointed towards the view. Wilson smiles back, turning sideways and crossing his arms, to watch him. House looks good, dressed in a shirt and a blazer that are less wrinkled than usual, his button-down tucked half-heartedly into the slacks he's wearing instead of jeans. The past few months have been good for him. House squints a bit, looking up into the sun, the crowsfeet around his eyes deepening, but it's not pain. Wilson keeps track of House's prescriptions because he doesn't want to ask if House does. The answer, if House bothered to tell the truth, wouldn't be comforting. But House hasn't demanded an increase in his refills since sometime last spring.

Wilson frowns. If he wants to check a calendar, it was probably before Foreman joined the Neurology Department. The idea that House has found another avenue of pain relief that works just as well or better than the Vicodin should be good news. Wilson has no idea if regular sex keeps House's pain at bay, because House never gave Stacy a chance to find out, and as much as House talks about hookers, Wilson tries hard not to listen. There could be another explanation. Maybe House's pain is leveling out. Maybe he's being smart about his tolerance to the narcotics.

Maybe Wilson's an optimistic idiot. "What's the case?" he asks abruptly.

"It's not cancer," House replies just as quickly.

"So I gathered from the lack of consult requests." House is deliberately not answering the question Wilson's asking. If Foreman's on loan from the Neurology Department again, Wilson's going to be hearing from Singh. He hates smoothing over the mess House makes every time he pulls Foreman away from his patients to fill the gap in House's diagnostic roster. Cuddy's hinted more than once that House should either convince Foreman to join his department full time or else start interviewing. House always shrugs and doesn't take cases with obvious neurological symptoms for the next few weeks, and then when his curiosity's piqued enough the whole cycle starts again.

"It's never cancer when I page you," House says, in a tone Wilson can't quite interpret. House glances up at him. His eyes, Wilson notices, are the same colour as the fall sky.

"Funny, it's never cancer when you don't page me, either," Wilson replies lightly, not sure what House is trying to say. "Until it is."

House throws him an annoyed look. "Bring beer tonight or I repossess your key." He stands up and grabs his cane.

Wilson opens his mouth to take it back, or to try again, but the balcony door opens, interrupting him.

"House." Foreman stands in the doorway, sounding impatient, as usual. "We've got the test results."

House doesn't respond. He's still looking at Wilson, leaning his hip into the handle of his cane. Foreman rolls his eyes and lets the door close, not bothering to push for an answer.

Wilson purses his lips as he watches Foreman go. When he turns back, House has finished studying him, and he's looking faintly pissed off. He pulls open his office door and limps inside, snapping his fingers for the films before the door even closes.

Wilson sighs and goes back to his office, but he props open the balcony door, so that he can catch the breeze and its hint of smoke. He stares at the papers littering his desk, fluttering as the wind shifts them. The work will still be there tomorrow. He lies down on his couch instead, tucking an arm behind his head. He half-expects House to page him for a consult on how the height of Cuddy's shoes shape her ass, or the disaster that is Chase's shirt and tie combination. He unclips his pager from his belt and rubs his thumb over the display, but it stays silent, and after a moment Wilson tosses it on the desk with the rest of the work he's ignoring.

Julie won't move in with the guy she's seeing, not if it means Wilson will get the house. He could find a hotel, or some anonymous bachelor apartment that's more sterile than the hospital. Wilson closes his eyes but he can't breathe away the frown that's settled between his eyebrows. He's almost forty, and all he's got is his job. Days like today, he wonders if he even has House any more.

God, sometimes he wishes he knew what the hell goes on in House's head. He doesn't talk about Foreman. He never used to talk about Stacy, either. He and Foreman seem to have an easy arrangement of nights together and nights when Foreman makes himself scarce. For the first few weeks after House hooked up with Foreman, Wilson kept thinking of him as _the new guy from Neurology_, expecting things to go back to normal any day. Now he waits for House to invite him over instead of just showing up. House issues invitations with a jerk of his head and a raised eyebrow, or by actually smiling at Wilson's jokes, or by showing up in Wilson's office at the end of the day and expecting him to be free. It's rare that House bothers with the words.

Wilson rubs tiredly at his eyes and then loosens his tie. He has rounds this afternoon but no consults scheduled this morning. He could spend a night or even two at Debbie's, if he makes the effort to call her and say the right things. She's always been friendly, if not actually warm, happy enough to help him get off if he returns the favour. It's never been serious, and it's too late to feel guilty about it. Wilson rests his arm on his stomach, pushing his tie aside and brushing his fingers idly along his sternum. Debbie's blonde isn't natural but her eyes are very large and very blue. Wilson likes watching her face while he fucks her, watching until she closes her eyes when she reaches orgasm. He pushes her hair aside with one hand while he strokes inside her, his fingers or hers working on her clit. Wilson lets out an ear-popping yawn and scratches his chest lightly through the space between buttons. He squirms a bit on his back, getting more comfortable, bending one leg at the knee and leaning it against the back of the couch, the other leg sprawling nearly off the cushions. The tension drains out of his muscles slowly as he focuses on Debbie's eyes, on kissing her. It's a nice fantasy. He could reach up to cup her breasts and maybe lower his head to suck one nipple into his mouth, while she says, "Oh, James, I need it, just like that."

Wilson shifts again, warm despite the breeze coming in the open door. He brushes his thumb across his chest, over his shirt, and the tease of the material over his nipples isn't rough enough to be good, yet, but it could be if he pinches a bit or scratches through the shirt with a fingernail. He's not hard, really, but it's been long enough that he knows it wouldn't take much to jerk off. Something quick and distracting and pointless. He sighs and forces his hand still, resting just where his diaphragm rises and falls. It's so juvenile, thinking about masturbating in his office, when he should be working. His hand's been about the only romance he's had since he and Debbie went off-again.

He squeezes his eyes shut and reaches for sleep, already knowing it's pointless. His thoughts drift back to the course of radiation treatments that Brown has asked him to look over, and the FDA guidelines for the breast cancer clinical trial he's thinking of putting together. House is right. He could never kill himself; he can't even take a nap while he has work in his in-tray. He's about to give in and go back to his desk when he hears the door on House's side of the balcony open.

The wind has dropped, and with his door open, their voices aren't hard to distinguish--House's, and Foreman's. Narrowing it down isn't difficult. Chase and Cameron don't go out there, and anyone else would have to either brave Diagnostics or come through Wilson's office. He can't make out what they're saying. It doesn't matter, because they don't talk long and Wilson knows they're not out there to enjoy each other's scintillating conversation.

It's not the first time. The walls hide them from the hallway, or from Cameron and Chase if they're in the conference room. The way Wilson's desk is positioned, though, means he has a front-row seat any time he cares to look up when they're out there. It's not often--he doubts he's caught them more than a half-dozen times in the last four months. Wilson thinks, sometimes, that Foreman might be showing off. He _knows_ that House is.

Wilson twists on the couch, which is lumpier than House's if that's possible, and too short, really, for him to stretch out on comfortably. He digs his elbow awkwardly into the cushions, trying to push himself into a better position, but it seems like the springs are sticking into his back no matter how he curls up. He adjusts his arm, but as soon as he stops using it as a pillow, it's suddenly full of pins and needles, shooting tingling pains up to his shoulder. He makes a fist and shakes it out, ridiculously reluctant to even swear. House will hear him. He's distracted at the moment, but he'll hear. He might not be embarrassed at being caught, but Wilson can't stand the idea that he's being used as an unwilling spectator. He grits his teeth and thinks about just walking out, but someone's sure to find him and press more work on him if he's wandering the halls. He lies back and stares at the ceiling, dappled with reflected light, until the circulation returns to his fingertips.

He's happy for House. He just...has a difficult time believing that House is in love. Or, if not love, that this is something that will last. And seeing House in a healthy relationship--two words that don't fit with House at all--while Wilson's third marriage has just died a quiet, unceremonious death, is so painfully awkward. The fact that House is getting some--from _Foreman_, who doesn't even seem to _like_ him--while Wilson's alone...feels vaguely pathetic, like he made the wrong decision at some point and now he's paying for it. He met Julie too soon after Bonnie left him, and nearly tripped over himself asking her to marry him. Too quickly. If he'd waited, maybe...

Maybe he's a coward, as House has told him more than once. He should just stand up, loudly, and bang his own balcony door shut as if he hadn't noticed what's going on outside. It's still quiet out there. They could have gone in, if he missed the sound of the door opening again. Besides, House is his friend, and what the hell does it matter if he's making out with his boyfriend or not? His patient probably isn't dying, because Foreman, at least, wouldn't be out there if he was supposed to be running tests or doing procedures. Wilson shakes his head and sits up quickly, rolling a cramp out of his shoulders and trying to massage away the crick in his neck from lying on the couch. This is his _office_. He's acting like a moody teenager, brooding over breaking up with the love of his life.

Wilson stands up, frowning at the balcony door. When he goes over to nudge the prop out of the way, and glances out, House and Foreman have already gone in, after all. Wilson leans against the door and crosses his arms, letting his head tip back. The sun is hot and blood-red through his eyelids. There's a weight on his chest. He tries to swallow it away, but it only settles more deeply. He aches.

He goes to his phone and makes a reservation at a hotel that's not far from the hospital, one he's recommended to his out-of-town patients when they have to stay overnight before their chemo appointments. The manager's voice stays bored even when Wilson mentions the indeterminate length of his stay. When the call is over, Wilson hooks the receiver gently in its cradle. He's standing behind his desk. His office is filled with the scent of dead leaves and melted frost. Wilson presses a hand into his eyes before he pulls on his lab coat, and then, with a sigh, he leaves to face the rest of his day.

At six o'clock, as he's picking up his briefcase, he finds he can't remember anything at all about the last eight hours. He wants sleep, but he also wants his own bed, whether Julie's there or not. Failing that, he wants House's couch, lumps included, if it could just come with the reassurance that House cares enough to let Wilson take up valuable real estate in his apartment.

House opens the door and raps his knuckles on it as he's coming in. "Scurvy, monosodium glutamate adverse reaction, or heart attack?" he asks. He's got his backpack hooked over one shoulder, and he's wearing his motorcycle jacket. He fiddles with Wilson's Zen garden, looking over the tschotkes that Wilson's managed to accumulate over the years as if he's making sure everything's still in its place.

"Scurvy," Wilson decides, pulling on his coat and turning off the lights.

House shakes his head. "Cheater. You're going to eat a salad tomorrow."

Wilson shrugs and locks his door as they head out into the hall. "I have a healthy attachment to my connective tissue."

House smiles, ducking his head the way he does when Wilson catches him and almost gets him laughing. Wilson grins, and finally his mind stops ticking over the decisions he's made today, the disaster he may have made of his department while he wasn't paying attention. He falls easily into step next to House as they head for the elevators.

"How's the patient?" he asks as the doors roll open and they get on.

"Doesn't understand a word we say," House answers with satisfaction.

"Agnosia?"

"Along with absence seizures and an attention span of less than two seconds," House says.

"Ah," Wilson says dryly, "a kindred spirit."

"It's LKS," House says. "Saw it on the EEG."

"Hence the celebration on the balcony this afternoon?"

For an instant, House looks so honestly blank that Wilson realizes he didn't even think about the fact that he could have seen House and Foreman from his office. Wilson flushes, his mouth crimping downwards. He was so sure House was showing off. He stutters something about getting the kid into speech therapy, onto anti-convulsants. Before House can answer, they're at the clinic doors and Wilson edges away, towards the parking garage. House's motorcycle is right out front, as usual. "I've got to swing by my place, pack a few things," Wilson says.

House doesn't bother responding to that remark, but Wilson hardly expected him to. By the time he gets to House's apartment, the coffee table will be set with grease-soaked plates of deep-fried chicken and fries glopped with reconstituted gravy sliding off the mashed potatoes, not a trace of vitamin C to be found, unless somebody screwed up the recipe for the macaroni 'salad'. When Wilson gets home, and reminds himself that it isn't home anymore, it's a relief to see that the lights are off and the driveway's empty. The rush of the wind sighs past him when he gets out of his car. It's going to rain soon, cold and clean. Wilson packs as if he's headed for a conference, suits and ties and his travel shaving kit. The perfunctory routine makes it easier to push away the fact that House never once _considered_ that Wilson could catch him, that he didn't think of Wilson at all.

He places the suitcase in the Volvo's trunk, and very carefully climbs in the driver's side. He slots the key into the ignition but he sits back in his seat instead of turning it. The first few drops of the night's rain spatter on the windshield. They shine orange, reflecting the streetlights. Wilson watches until the drops bunch and gather and start rolling down to the wipers. He remembers House leaning against the bricks of the balcony wall, his right leg bent at the knee, his cane held loosely in one hand, dipping his head forward and completely wrapped up in kissing; kissing like it's the only thing that exists right then.

House is a perfectionist. House is obsessive. House is single-minded to a fault, determined, stubborn, and proud. He kisses like he does everything else--obnoxiously well.

Wilson slumps lower in the driver's seat and raises a hand to his mouth. He runs his thumb across his lower lip. Five years later, the sensation that strikes him most clearly in his memory is surprise. Breathless, heart-stopping, freezing him to his chair surprise. It's the last thing in the world he would have expected from House. Not even the kiss--although he never could have suspected that House would kiss him--but that it was so gentle at first, so inviting. An offer instead of an assumption.

When Wilson fantasizes, it's rarely about kissing. That's strange, because Wilson loves losing himself in someone else's mouth, in warmth, in closeness. Lazy kissing that doesn't need to go anywhere, hands stroking down his arms and over his chest, not with any destination in mind but just to feel that he's there, that there's nothing better than being present with him in that moment. He can't remember Julie ever kissing him like that, and Debbie's impatient when they're together. Wilson wants more, the small pauses when he looks into those blue eyes, and they both smile, and he leans in so slowly just to touch their lips together again. It would be different than he's used to, House's skin sandpaper-rough against his, his hands gripping tighter, his body harder. House kisses slowly, every movement dragged out as long as possible, his weight pressing Wilson down into his seat. So present and so smug, impossible to ignore. Wilson's dick twitches, and he opens his eyes. The tap of rain against the car has fallen away, and a scatter of leaves are plastered damply to the driveway. The air in the car is sharp, and Wilson reaches forward to start the engine. He lets warm air blast over him, although his skin is already hot.

He drives to House's apartment. The hotel allows registration as late as midnight, and it's out of his way, not worth the bother for the moment. Wilson doesn't even know if he'll end up there tonight, if House wants to try and drink him under the table. Besides, he's hungry, almost too impatient to even stop for House's favourite beer when he remembers he's supposed to bring it. He lets himself in to House's place without knocking, relieved that he's expected. House can do what he likes, but the last thing Wilson wants is to walk in on him and Foreman.

"You're late," House calls from the living room while Wilson stops to pour himself a glass of water in the kitchen. "You already missed the best explosion."

"What about the bikinis?" Wilson asks, sliding onto his side of the couch, carrying his water and the six-pack of beer.

"Not yet," House says, sitting up to snatch a beer out of Wilson's hand.

"Then I'm not late." The chicken is still hot but the gravy is half-congealed. Wilson serves himself and grabs a paper napkin from the bag. From the looks of House's slacks, he apparently decided they weren't necessary. Wilson smiles a bit and rolls his eyes so House can see.

"Trying to make my dry-cleaning bills worth it," House mutters.

Wilson laughs, holding it in enough that it's just his shoulders shaking, brushing against House's. The movie's vaguely distracting, although he's seen it before. He promises himself a week of salads to make up for the chicken. Beside him, House makes a low appreciative sound when the bikini scene comes on. Wilson smiles. House hasn't stopped making comments about Cuddy at work, either, or admiring Cameron's fury when he provokes her. He still likes women, he's just...with a man. For now.

House makes it look so simple. As if the switch from women to men is just that easy for him--as if he doesn't notice gender at all. Wilson shifts on the couch, not quite able to settle. He thinks about clearing their dishes into the kitchen. He doesn't get up. The mess doesn't bother House, although it might piss off Foreman when he comes over next time. Wilson finds himself watching House, in the almost-dark living room. Wondering if he still gets off thinking about women. Wilson thinks of telling him that House had been right, the time maybe six months ago that he'd found Wilson in the clinic, disheveled and blushing. He'd been fucking Debbie, lifting her up against the exam bed and sinking in, no condom but neither of them cared; his hands under her ass while she buried her face in his shoulder and he closed his eyes, fucking her until she came, and then sliding out and letting her stroke him off with her hand, his dick slippery from her cunt and desperate, desperate, knowing the whole time that House was scheduled to be working in the room next door although he probably wasn't there at all...

He wants, suddenly, to know if House heard, if that's why he came bursting in three minutes afterwards with a smirk on his face. He'd looked Wilson up and down, and Wilson had never felt so naked although by then he'd managed to get his clothes arranged. If he admits to House that he almost got it up again, that quickly, just from the way House's eyes moved over him...will House react? Right now, on his couch, if Wilson starts confessing fantasies to him, women he's done once or twice or carried on with for months; the first time he went down on Julie, the time he let Bonnie finger him because he had to know what it was like; does House still think of women like that, does the thought of breasts and smooth thighs and soft skin still make him hard?

Wilson bites his lip and waits for House to get up and leave the room, going to the bathroom. He should leave. Get out of here. But the thought of the hotel, empty and nothing at all like _his_, makes him stop. He's restless, but he can't move. His hands feel cold and his heart is racing. He watches the hallway, waiting, and he stands up when he hears House turn off the water in the sink. He wants this. He needs it.

House eyes him when he comes back into the room, and shifts as if to walk around him, but Wilson moves, finally, and stands in front of him. "House," he says, and touches the back of House's hand where it's holding his cane. House looks at him, and if Wilson can't read his expression then House's look is still enough to make him feel more real than anything else has today. Wilson says, "I..." but he can't finish, so he takes the last step, and kisses House instead.

They're standing close enough that Wilson can feel the barest hint of House's body against his, thigh and hip and chest. House's hand, under his, is warm and tense. His mouth is off-kilter against Wilson's, not quite lined up right. Wilson has no idea how to do this, and he feels hesitant and half-lost, but then House bends his head just a fraction of an inch and they're really kissing. House's lips catch and move against his, and the bristle of his stubble somehow isn't strange at all. Wilson breathes in, quick and shuddering. House licks along his lips and into his mouth and arousal floods through Wilson like House has turned on a switch. His whole body feels hot and limp, and he's not sure how he's staying on his feet. House kisses his jaw, his throat, finding Wilson's pulse with his tongue, and his stubble scrapes upwards until Wilson hears House's breath in his ear. He shivers, feeling feverish and breathless. Then House whispers into the side of his neck, but Wilson catches every word.

"Is this for my own good, or yours?"

Wilson jerks back. "I--what?"

"Thought I'd let you fuck me while you're on the rebound?" House's lips are still soft, but his words are cutting.

Wilson looks up and meets his eyes. House knows it's been over between him and Julie for months. "I'm not on the rebound. House..."

"Didn't think at all, did you?" House smirks at him bitterly. "Except with your dick."

Wilson glares, the heat in his blood turning easily to anger. "I seem to recall you did the same thing--"

"Five years ago, Wilson. Five fucking years." House shoves at him, pushing him back a step. "Did I ever make you think that I didn't take no for an answer?"

"I've changed."

"You've been dumped."

Wilson forces the tension out of his shoulders. "I was wrong," he says.

"Obviously. Too bad I'm not you, or this might work out." House limps forward, heading for the couch.

Wilson blocks him, again, grabbing his cane this time to stop him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You got served with divorce papers this morning, and tonight you're suddenly gay?" House leans in and says in a low voice, "I'd be flattered if I thought you meant it."

Wilson slides his grip up House's right arm and pulls him closer. "I mean it," he says, and drags House into another kiss. It's harder this time, and demanding, and Wilson pulls House's weight onto his right side until he has to lean on Wilson instead. He's tired of lying. House promised him this, somehow promised that if Wilson got over himself then there would be _this_, waiting for him. He presses his hips forward, to meet House's. They're both hard, through their pants, and Wilson wants to gasp into House's mouth at the feeling. "I mean it," he says again.

House grins, but there's nothing amused in it. "Too late," he says.

Wilson swallows, hard, and he can't breathe at all after that. House wants him. It's just...not enough. Wilson lets his hands drop to his side and meets House's eyes. Their blue is hard and flat and angry, and Wilson wants to force him to deny it, to admit that Wilson's more important, more _worthy_. That whatever House has should be Wilson's, too, that House is _his_.

House drops his gaze. "If you think that getting shot down means anything's changed," he says, viciously, "then you haven't been paying attention for the last five years."

This time, when House backs off, Wilson lets him go. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry about that."

House barely glances at him. "Go fuck a woman. It'll make you feel better."

"House," Wilson says, and his voice almost breaks, and he hates himself even as he says, "I want you."

House limps to the couch. "Get out," he says. His voice is tired, and he stares at the television as if Wilson's already gone.

Wilson leaves.

He drives to the hotel, safely under the speed limit, weaving around the other traffic calmly, turning his wiper blades on low when the rain sweeps in. He smiles politely at the night manager when he signs for his key, and he tips the bellhop who carries his one small suitcase up to his room. He asks for a wake-up call at his usual hour for tomorrow. The furniture and walls are decorated in stripes and ugly floral patterns. Wilson pulls off his tie and strips out of his suit, leaving them crumpled on the floor. He crawls naked between the cool stiff sheets that smell of nothing, of no one. He can't sleep in the perfect dark of the blackout curtains. He closes his eyes and reaches between his legs, and now his hands are trembling, as he tugs roughly at himself, in the complete impersonal silence of the hotel. Wilson doesn't want to think of House, but the kiss is still warm on his lips and he needs, needs, so he lets the memory fill him until he's hard and aching. He comes, pretending it's House's hand on his dick, and when he's done, the blocky hotel pillow is damp under his cheek.

 

_end_


End file.
